


Nobodies - the Cobblepot Twins AU

by NerdyBirdy1224



Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Casper will probably have a love interest at some point, LOTS of violence, Lots of Angst, Multi, all the ships will be pretty much only as present as they are in canon, but hey you know gotham, but oh well, it's a mystery, lots of tension, maybe Barbara, maybe Harvey, more tags to be added later, one-sided Gobblepot, wow boy oh boy i cannot handle commitment to multi-chapter fics
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-06-02
Updated: 2018-07-06
Packaged: 2018-07-11 21:17:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,036
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7070701
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NerdyBirdy1224/pseuds/NerdyBirdy1224
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He hated penguins - pathetic birds with useless wings and short, stubby legs, undignified and bizarre. Everything people saw him as and that he was trying to move on from. And then, of course, there was the way the name compared him to his brother. It implied something inferior and different. They called his brother The Dove when he didn't want to use his name - it sounded innocent, graceful, tranquil, pure. As if! It seemed like everyone else only saw the well-groomed, respectable Casper, and Oswald was the only one that saw the far less composed side of him. Oswald had dyed his blonde, nearly white hair black to distinguish him from his twin, but now the contrast just made him feel abnormal, and undignified. Casper Cobblepot's weird twin. A penguin in a family of doves. </p><p>(The Cobblepot Twins AU - the slowest of burns - featuring Oswald Cobblepot's twin. Inspired by a video.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A Penguin in a Family of Doves

**Author's Note:**

> So first of all if you haven't seen https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7_b6CTXDKVA that video, absolutely go watch it  
> before you read this, I saw it and became absolute trash for this AU and well...this happened. Somehow. I don't believe my  
> beta reader has an account, but kudos to her anyway.

**** “Sorry, Miss Mooney,” he stammered for easily the fifth time that afternoon. The blustering wind had pulled the umbrella out of his grip, allowing rain to fall on the nightclub owner.

 

She grabbed the umbrella and his hand, fingernails stabbing into his knuckles, and pulled the umbrella back over her head. “If you let this hair go frizzy, you will be. Three more drops on this skin…” Mooney glared steel daggers at him, “and I'll call your brother in.”

 

Oswald swallowed nervously. His brother had held the position of Fish Mooney’s assistant before him, but she had caught him attempting to sneak out a bottle of liquor. Casper Cobblepot now worked as a goods runner directly for Carmine Falcone. No crime goes unrewarded, after all.

 

With the threat of facing his unruly, cheeky brother hanging over his head, he simply stared at the ground and attempted to focus on his job, rather than allowing himself to be distracted by...well. By the frankly delicious sight in front of him, his boss Fish smashing some weasel’s face in with a metal baseball bat. As much as he despised Fish for the way she treated him, he had to admire her for her strength, her dignity. She carried herself like royalty. 

 

A waiter tapped Mooney on the shoulder to alert her of a visitor, and she passed the bat to Butch Gilzean, the local muscle. “Keep him warm,” she ordered with a smile. 

 

The beefy man smirked at Oswald as soon as she left. “Oswald, you want a turn?” he asked, extending the bat towards him. He stared down at the man in front of him, helpless, blood streaming from his face as he struggled for breath.

 

His twin, Oswald mused, would turn down the offer. Casper Cobblepot was a cheeky, lying, cheating suckup. He was an alcoholic, a thief, a trickster, and a smarmy bastard, but he wasn't a sadist and avoided violence where he could. But Oswald? Oswald was a completely different story. If you presented Oswald Cobblepot with a baseball bat and a bloody man and told him to go to town, he would revel in every instant of it. The feeling of control, power, and being taken  _ seriously  _ for once in his life - he craved it just as his brother was in deep with liquor.

 

Oswald Cobblepot grabbed the bat with a grin and swung it down hard on the man’s back. And then again, and again, and again. Droplets of blood splattered his white sleeve and shirtfront. He was deeply immersed in the activity when Butch interrupted him with an irritated “Easy, Oswald.”

 

Another of Mooney’s cronies added, “Yeah, take it easy,  _ Penguin _ ,” and Oswald's gaze immediately snapped towards him.

 

“You know I don't like to be  _ called that _ ,” he spat. It was a nickname he had been plagued with as a child for his beaked nose, affinity for black and white, and short stature. He  _ hated  _ penguins - pathetic birds with useless wings and short, stubby legs, undignified and bizarre. Everything people saw him as and that he was trying to move on from. 

 

And then, of course, there was the way the name  _ compared _ him to his brother. It implied something inferior and different. They called his brother The Dove when he didn't want to use his name - it sounded innocent, graceful, tranquil, pure. As  _ if!  _ It seemed like everyone else only saw the well-groomed, respectable Casper, and Oswald was the only one that saw the far less composed side of him. 

 

Oswald had dyed his blonde, nearly white hair black to distinguish him from his twin, but now the contrast just made him feel abnormal, and undignified. Casper Cobblepot's weird twin. A penguin in a family of doves. 

 

The man wasn't remotely phased by Oswald's tone and gave a sardonic, “Ooh. Scary.” 

 

Oswald stood practically steaming with rage for a moment before a voice called from behind him: “How's everybody doing?” He whirled around to see a man leaning into the alley, face a picture of concern. He was clearly a cop - Oswald's mother had taught her children how to recognize police easily. But this man...seemed different. Perhaps new to town.

 

He attempted to reply but made only a startled hiss. Blessedly, Butch stepped in for him. “Who are you?”

 

“Detective James Gordon, GCPD,” the officer replied. 

 

“Oswald and Raoul were just havin a bit of fun, weren't ya, boys?” Butch explained with a smirk.

 

Lying and charm were more of Casper’s skill than his, but Oswald mustered a smile and agreed, “M-hm. All in fun.” It wasn't a lie.  _ He  _ was having fun.

 

Raoul coughed up a bit of blood and choked out, “Uh-huh. Fun.”

 

“Drop the bat,” Jim ordered.

 

Oswald dropped the bat.

 

Clearly this cop was new, and quite stupid. In Gotham, you don't tell Fish Mooney how to run her club. Behavior like that would get you in very serious trouble. Jim Gordon, Oswald reasoned, would not last long in Gotham. Heroes never do.

 

~

 

Casper Cobblepot didn't mind his job. Falcone paid him well and it was easy. It was amoral, sure, but He didn't mind that much either. That was how Gotham was. He didn't hate being a mook, unlike his power-hungry twin. 

 

But he passionately hated Fish Mooney. She was disrespectful, duplicit, and controlling. She'd also broken his wrist on one occasion for attempting to make off with a bottle of triple sec. Apparently he loved triple sec more than the bones in his arm, she had mocked. She hadn't been wrong.

 

His dealings with Falcone occasionally forced him to interact with Fish, but when they had to meet, he tried to be polite.

 

But today was different. He was trying to get back on Fish’s good side, to some extent - she was quite powerful in Gotham, after all, and a very useful ally. One of Falcone’s underbosses had tipped Casper off that she had her own job for him, under the Don’s radar. Something to do with the Wayne murders, about which he knew very little. He just wanted it over with quickly. So he brushed open the doors to Fish’s club and sat down at the bar with as much of an air of patience as he could pull together. “Miss Mooney! Looking lovely today.”

 

“Of course,” she replied dryly, with a light smile. She wasn't pretending to be happy to see him. 

 

“So…” he continued, a little put off, “Falcone told me you had a gig for me?”

 

Fish picked a strand of pearls off the counter and held them towards him loosely. “The police are looking for any leads to the identity of the Waynes’ murderer. I think finding Martha Wayne’s necklace in the apartment of one Mario Pepper would be good enough evidence for them.”

 

“You want me to plant it?” he clarified calmly. 

 

“Somewhere good, of course, don't want to make it look sloppy. You're running drugs for Falcone now, isn't that right?”

 

Casper just nodded. 

 

“Good. Just get this in his apartment in a bag of something incriminating. Will you be able to get in?”

 

“Of course. Once I make it up the fire escape, the window locks on the buildings in that neighborhood are ancient. Child’s play.”

 

Fish sighed. “The difference between you and Penguin astonishes me. You talk about clambering up fire escapes while your brother can't even hold up a damn umbrella properly on his own.” Casper cringed. He recognized his brother’s hated nickname and knew he'd be furious if he were here... _ but _ he wasn't. It really wasn't worth making a scene about so he just faked a small laugh. She continued, “Good to know you're making yourself useful for once. No hard feelings about the arm, I'm sure.”

 

Casper shook his head with a smile. “None at all. I had it coming, after all.” He laughed casually, although with a bitter edge.

 

“Yes, you did,” she muttered. “Oh, and- Falcone didn't give me express permission to go ahead with this idea, so maybe keep this a bit on the down-low.”

 

He gave a mini-salute. No use protesting with that - he was getting paid for it after all, and what Falcone didn't know couldn't hurt him. “Will do, Miss Mooney.”

 

“Thanks, Cobblepot,” she replied, picking up a cocktail.

 

“Oh, please,” he protested with an amicable smile, “this is a business meeting. Call me Dove.”

 

Mooney didn't reply. He backed out of the room and ran straight into his brother, who at the moment was lurking creepily just behind the door to the back room. “Hey, Oz,” he chirped, dropping the formal demeanor he wore on business. “What’re you doing?”

 

Panic flashed in his brother’s eyes. Casper had gotten good at reading faces, and Oswald was, when under pressure, a somewhat awful liar. Still, if he'd heard something and decided to get his fool self in trouble acting on it, that was none of his business. “W-I- uh, just looking for you, actually.” He smiled. “Found you!”

 

Casper nodded patiently. “What did you need?”

 

“Oh, uh, Mom wanted to talk to you. As, as soon as possible. Something about how concerned she is, you spending the weekend in your room completely drunk or something. You know Mother.”

 

He gave an exaggerated sigh. “Thanks, I'll drop in.” Quickly, he slipped down the hallway. He heard Oswald leave behind him in the opposite direction and did his best to ignore it.

 

~

 

Oswald returned from his discussion with internal affairs a good hour later. Fish wasn't in the room, thank god, so he simply sat down at his desk to work through some account books. 

 

His deal with IA had been completely anonymous. There was no way Fish could track it back to him.

 

This became his silent mantra for the next several minutes. 

 

Abruptly, he slammed his fist on the table. Every ounce of rage in him was, for just a moment, directed at himself.

 

_ Why did he have to sell out his own fucking brother. _

 

He gave them Casper’s  _ name. He didn't have to- _

 

_ He shouldn't have- _

 

With a deep breath, he tried to calm himself down. There was no way anyone could find out it was him. No way in hell.

 

A migraine started to press in on his temples. He blinked, twice, hard, gritted his teeth, and tried to focus on his work. 

 

This concentration was shortly broken by the unwelcome intrusion of a familiar face. “Oswald, right?” a gruff voice greeted him. He looked up to see Detective Jim Gordon enter the club. 

 

He forced a smile through the pain in his skull and managed a polite reply. “So nice to see you again, Detective Gordon. Can I help you?” 

 

“I need to speak with Mooney.” No pleasantries with Jim. Brisk. Cold. An attitude that isolated most people, but, after all, the cold was where penguins thrived.

 

Still, his words sent a shiver of paranoia down his spine. Jim could be here on a lead from IA, but Fish would never be able to trace it back to him. Right?

 

“And what shall I say you need to speak with her about?” he asked innocently.

 

And then Jim answered, “Mario Pepper,” and Oswald's blood ran cold. No, it ran  _ hot _ . His pulse thundered in his ears, migraine immediately aggravated. A tic started up below his eye. 

 

“I don't mean to be impertinent,” he began hoarsely, “but, um, um, may I ask why?”

 

“No,” Jim snapped.

 

Oswald tried his damnedest to keep eye contact but his gaze kept flickering to the exits, to the quickest escape routes. “Yes, no.” He laughed, the noise flat, raspy, unconvincing. “None of my business, is it?” He couldn't stand politeness anymore. His head pounded and he was struggling to not throw up, let alone to lie. Oswald dropped his voice to a hiss. “Get out of here, you fool! Scram!”

 

Jim tilted his head to the side, scrunched his eyebrows. “Why are you so upset?” Oswald's head was in the verge of exploding from frustration. 

 

Before he could offer any more explanation, Fish Mooney emerged from the back room, accompanied by two henchmen. Oswald cleared his throat and attempted to shift back to his books, but it was clear she sensed the tension in the air. “Well, well, Gordon,” she purred, “You seem a little wired. Something wrong?” 

 

“I'm not sure yet. I have a couple of questions I want to ask you.”

 

And Fish stared right at Oswald, for a split second, and even though he didn't look up from his work, he could  _ feel _ her eyes burning holes in the top of his head. His stomach dropped through the seat.

 

_ She knew. _

 

Fish escorted Jim to the back room to discuss, and Oswald knew that he was going to say something stupid, and she was going to have him killed. Even though Gordon was a fool who should've minded his own business, Oswald felt a rare twinge of guilt. He wasn't used to people actually _trying_ to do the right thing.

 

He genuinely attempted not to listen to their conversation, but the sound of something shattering within the locked room piqued his curiosity. Without making too much noise, he crept to the door and pressed an ear to the crack. “Get him out of here,” he heard Mooney bark. 

 

Before Oswald had a chance to move out of the way, the door swung open and clocked him squarely in the jaw. He fell to a seat on the floor as two burly men emerged, carrying Officer Gordon like a ragdoll. Fish glided out behind them and watched calmly as he scrambled up from the floor. He stammered, “Miss Mooney, I-I-I'm sorry, I didn't mean to eavesdrop, I just couldn't help but sense some h-”

 

Fish cut him off with one finger. “You should learn to keep your nose-” she planted one sharp fingernail into said nose- “out of other people's business.” 

 

Oswald scrambled out of the room. He needed help.

 

~

 

Casper had never cared much about his appearance, but as the Dove, he had to have an image. So, he went for the most casual suit possible, a light grey blazer on a plain white undershirt, in keeping with his business name. That had been Oswald's suggestion. Although he was a cunning, ruthless sadist, his twin knew suits.

 

Unfortunately, he'd torn his most maneuverable suit on the shoulder blade during his climb down from Pepper’s balcony. The light scratch in his skin didn't particularly bother him, and only served to remind him of a job well done.

 

He was torn away from examining the tear - and the suit in general - by a clamor behind him. In the mirror he saw Oswald stumble into the powder room, panting heavily. “Something got you ruffled, Oz?” he asked glibly.

 

Oswald's face was a mask of panic. “Casper, you-you have to help me, Fish is gonna kill him and then she's gonna come after me-”

 

“Woah, woah, slow down. Who is Fish killing?” he asked, placing comforting hands on his brother’s shoulders.

 

The dark-haired twin took a deep breath and began, “Officer Jim Gordon found out Fish framed Mario Pepper and now she's having him killed so he can't talk. And I- well, he just arrived in Gotham, he's not a normal cop, and seeing as it's my fault he's in this trouble, I want to try to get him out.”

 

Casper, never one to pass up an opportunity to mock his brother, poked him in the side a few times and gave a low, drawn-out “oooh”.

 

Oswald swatted the hands aside with murder in his eyes and hissed, “Casper, this is serious.” He grabbed his forehead and muttered, “And Fish knows I snitched, I can just feel it-”

 

“Woah,” Casper interrupted, all traces of a lingering chuckle melting from his face. “You snitched on Mooney?”

 

“That's not important right now,” answered Oswald dismissively. “I need your help to stop Gordon from dying. And, later, if possible, me.”

 

His brother sighed melodramatically. “Alright, I'll see if I can pull some strings with Falcone.” He could see Oswald squirm, bothered by his nonchalance.

 

“Thank you,” he muttered.

 

“What was that?”

 

“I said  _ thank you. _ ”

 

“Oswald!” came a shout from the parlor. Fish sounded distressed - she didn't usually use his brother's name. Oswald hurried out of the powder room without another word. Casper scoffed. His twin was so pitiful around Fish, it was embarrassing. Always “yes, Miss Mooney,” “sorry, Miss Mooney,” “it won't happen again, Miss Mooney.” So very ingenuine.

 

Still, his brother sounded particularly desperate. He'd talk to Falcone, have him locate the execution and put the kibosh on it. It would be nice for his brother to owe him a favor. 

 

After a quick phone call to his boss, in the most respectful tone he could use over the phone, he convinced Carmine to intervene. It wasn't hard, Fish didn't have his permission to begin with. 

 

He grabbed the alabaster cane with a bird head that he carried - primarily for aesthetic - and twirled it around his wrist as he strolled out the door, whistling. 

 

As he stepped out into the lounge, however, his carefree mood melted away. Fish was nowhere to be seen, nor was his wayward brother. A chair lay toppled on the floor. He rushed out of the room and took a cab to the Kapelput residence. 

 

Gertrude met him at the door, eyes red. She'd been crying. Rather than speak to him, she simply thrust a bag of white powder at his chest and stormed away. He felt sick. “Mom, please,” he began, chasing after her into the living room, “it's not what it looks like.”

 

“You can't lie to me, Casper,” she shouted, borderline howled. “I am not a fool.”

 

“Mom, it's not- it's not drugs. Mr. Falcone is assisting the police in catching drug dealers by spreading fake drugs. They're fake.” He was quite proud of himself for that - he hadn't had any explanation prepared for a situation like this. Falcone would never back it up, of course, and would have his head for stealing, so he would just have to hope the two never met.

 

His mother sniffed uncertainly. “You're helping the police?” Something like relief or distress flashed across her features and she muttered, “I'm begin to wish you were just buying drugs.”

 

~

 

_ Well, Oswald _ , he thought,  _ good job. You successfully saved Jim Gordon’s life. How noble of you. _

 

_ Now he's gonna kill you _ .

 

When the back hatch of Harvey Bullock’s car was opened, and he saw Officer Gordon staring down at him, he knew Falcone had carried out his request. Now there was just the small matter of whether Jim would play the hero once again or if had he learned his lesson.

 

A bearded cop whom he recognized as one Detective Bullock gestured to him. He could barely hear over the pounding in his head and the agony of the cramping of his  _ very _ broken leg, but he caught the words “snitch”, “Falcone”, and “kill”. The message wasn't difficult to piece together. 

 

Jim’s face betrayed nothing, and Oswald couldn't hear his brisk reply. Harvey pantomimed to the left and made a finger gun. Rather than following their conversation, he tried to determine his location. All he could smell was blood and all he could feel was pain, so three of five senses were out of commission. A couple of seagulls passed overhead. Somewhere waterfront. That was good, but his swimming ability would be impeded by a bullet in his brain. 

 

After a lot of discussion, Jim finally turned to him and the ringing in Oswald’s head had subsided enough to hear the command “out.” He had no intentions of moving. He had been stripped to a t-shirt and underwear, his leg was broken and, he suspected, his nose was as well. He was  _ cold _ and  _ gagged  _ and was about to be  _ shot.  _ He would not be cooperating with demands.

 

Bullock and Jim were forced to haul him out of the trunk, and he finally saw his location - a riverfront pier.

 

_ Shit.  _

 

Gordon forced him to walk forward, dragging his leg behind him the whole way.  _ This is it, Oswald. You earned it,  _ he thought.  _ Casper would rub it in your face.  _

 

They reached the end of the pier and all hope was truly lost. Black water chunked with ice sped by ten feet below. No-one would ever even find him. Mom would be distraught. 

 

“Turn around,” said Jim Gordon. Oswald turned to face him, mewling and pleading through the gag. He flinched as the tip of the gun barrel contacted his forehead. If he weren't so terrified, he'd be ashamed. He was pitiful. 

 

And then his heart seemed to start from a dead stop as Jim angled the gun  _ right next  _ to his head. “Don't ever come back to Gotham,” he hissed. 

 

Everything happened at once.

 

He fired the gun. 

 

He shoved Oswald off the pier. 

 

He didn't look down as Oswald fell.

 

Oswald wasn't sure whether he should celebrate or panic.

 

Oswald his the water with a smack that sent the air flying out of his lungs.

 

He was carried down the river in a frenzy, the water churning with detritus and ice. He couldn't breath or see and it was so cold he couldn't feel his leg or anything else. His eyes stung. He managed to pull his arms to his face and fumble out of the gag. 

 

Penguins - outcasts among birds. Useless. Can't fly. Can hardly walk. But there's one thing penguins can do, it's swim.

 

And he swam. 


	2. A Flightless Dove is a Dead Dove

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> All Oswald needs is to get back to Gotham. All Casper wants to do it put it behind him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> surprise, bitches. i bet you thought you'd seen the last of me.

He’d gotten into innumerable scrapes with other kids in school, frequently found himself in tight spots trying to bail his twin out of a situation he'd gotten himself into, and faced countless dangers working under Fish Mooney. Despite all this, Oswald Cobblepot had never been in as desperate of a position as he found himself in at that moment.

 

He felt near dead from hypothermia, though this was the least of his problems. His leg was broken in, although he couldn't be sure at the time, exactly three places. Each step he took towards Gotham City sent a spear of pain through his body and each car that passed him by as he stuck out his thumb sent a spear of humiliation through his heart. He was certain there was nowhere to go but up. 

 

He thought of Jim’s last words to him. “Don't ever come back to Gotham.” Of course, he planned on ignoring them to every extent - he couldn't stay away from his city. But what would he do? Stay far away from Fish, for one thing. He'd visit his mother and Casper; they were no doubt worried half to death. Well, his mother, at any rate.

 

Perhaps he would pay Jim a visit. Oswald was grateful for him sparing his life, just as  _ he _ had saved Jim’s. They were friends now, he hoped, which was an unfamiliar and altogether vaguely unsettling feeling. He didn't really have  _ friends _ . He had his twin, whom he tolerated and depended on at best. That and Fish, who he respected and feared and, more recently, hated. Jim might genuinely  _ appreciate  _ his company.

 

Yes, he'd definitely pay Jim a visit.

 

A large silver car passed by and Oswald flung out his thumb stiffly, gesturing in the direction of the city. To his surprise, the vehicle pulled to a stop on the shoulder in front of him. He sighed gratefully and smiled at the yet unseen drivers. 

 

However, just as he reached the door handle, they pulled forward another few feet. He was nearly jerked to the ground. His blood boiled - but at least they were stopping. Oswald limped forward again and, once again, the truck pulled out of reach. The childish pricks were no doubt tricking him. He stood in place, waiting for them to leave.

 

“Come on, come on,” the driver called with a laugh.

 

Oswald didn't move.

 

“Seriously, come in.”

 

Hesitantly, he made his way to the handle which, thank god, stayed stationary, and clambered inside. 

 

The drivers were a pair of college-aged boys, dressed in matching sweaters and polos. The front of the car was filled with empty beer bottles, and they each had a full one themselves. Some loud, screeching music played from the speakers. 

 

_ You have to tolerate these people if you want to get back to Gotham _ , he reminded himself.

 

“Thank you so much, guys, really. I-I’d been waiting for hours.”

 

“Yeah, no kidding,” the driver chortled. “You look like you crawled your way out of a cemetery.”

 

“Smell like it, too. Open a window back there.”

 

Oswald swallowed and clenched his teeth; he supposed they had a point. He'd been beaten, shoved in a trunk, and shot into a river. He had swum through rapids, crawled to a highway, and sliced a man’s throat for a fish sandwich. They couldn't expect him to look or smell like a beauty queen. 

 

_ You HAVE to tolerate these people if you want to get back to Gotham. _

 

The passenger leaned back towards him and Oswald barely processed something in his hand when he sprayed a sweet-smelling substance Oswald’s his face. His eyes scrunched up, and it stung his tongue. It didn't taste nearly as pleasant as it smelled. 

 

Air freshener. They had sprayed air freshener on Oswald. 

 

_ YOU HAVE TO TOLERATE THESE PEOPLE IF YOU WANT TO GET BACK TO GOTHAM. _

 

He smiled, thanked them a few more times, attempted to make conversation. He could be polite enough if he wanted to. 

 

The driver passed him back a beer and asked, “You know, has anyone ever told you that when you walk, you look just like a penguin?” Oswald’s heart jumped at the word. He clenched his jaw.

 

That was  _ fucking it.  _

 

“No,” he spat, “nobody’s ever told me that.” With that, he shattered the unopened beer bottle against the door and buried it into the passenger’s neck. Blood sprayed across the windshield. He heard the driver scream, rather distantly.

 

Maybe he wouldn't have to tolerate them after all.

 

~

 

Upon talking to his mother, the Internal Affairs investigators pulled Casper aside. He trusted them somewhat more than his family did - after all, he was just a trader for Falcone. He'd never  _ killed  _ anyone, something he wasn't positive his brother could say. And he was more willing to hear the truth than his mother. Casper knew a “painted slut” wasn't the reason for Oswald’s disappearance. 

 

“Your brother worked at Fish Mooney’s nightclub, you know that?” Detective Montoya asked him. 

 

“Yeah.”

 

“And you’re a, uh, drug dealer for Carmine Falcone?”

 

“Yeah. But I work with Mooney occasionally.”

 

Montoya nodded. “Right, right. And you understand that Oswald was involved in some…organized...crime. Dangerous work.”

 

Casper’s throat felt dry. “Yes, I know.”

 

Uneasily, Allen began, “Your brother occasionally acted as a...well, an informant for us. He came to us about allegations that Mario Pepper had been framed.”

 

Well, that was news.

 

_ How much had he said. _

 

“I understand,” he rasped, “but what's happened to him?”

 

“...we believe Fish Mooney found out and had him killed.”

 

Casper’s heart seemed to stop. For a minute he was sure it had. When he realized he had not, in fact, dropped dead, he looked Montoya right in the eyes and said, “Thank you...for telling me. Don't tell my mother yet, please?” She nodded. His eyes welled up with entirely intentional tears. 

 

“You don't…” Allen paused. “You don't know anything about Mario Pepper, do you?”

 

Casper glared at him, hurt written plainly across his face. “How can you ask that?” He snarled. He turned away from them, seeming to cry silently into his hands. The detectives left without another word.

 

The moment they were out of the room, he slammed the palm of his hand into the wall in a fury, boiling with rage. Not at Fish Mooney, no. Oswald wasn't dead. It was one of his talents, not dying. Whenever he'd gotten into scrapes, as he often did with bullies in school or bosses as an adult, he found a way out of it. There was no doubt Fish hadn’t succeeded in killing Oswald, and she couldn't exactly be blamed for trying. 

 

All of his anger was directed at his twin - Allen’s last question had told him something  _ very _ important.

 

_ His piece of shit brother had sold him out.  _

  
  


How could he have? They were brothers! Twins! Casper was seething. He grasped at his hair, separating it from his scalp at the roots.

 

Teeth clenched, he flung open the door to the living room - and found his mother just outside it, eyes wet with tears. “Is it true, what they say?” she asked in a whisper.

 

Ah, shit. This wasn't what he needed right now.

 

Casper wrapped his arms around his mother in a genuine, comforting hug. “They don't know for sure.”

 

She sobbed. “How could anyone think about hurting my Oswald? He'd never hurt anyone.”

 

“Oz is very resourceful. I'm sure he's doing fine. Just you wait, he'll come back soon.” Gertrude was inconsolable. Knowing she couldn't hear him, Casper took the liberty of muttering, “and when he does, I'm gonna break his nose.”

 

They stood like that for a long while before a knock interrupted their respectively tearful and aggravated embrace. “GCPD!” a man’s voice called through the door. 

 

“Don't answer it!” Gertrude hissed.

 

“Mom, I have to answer it. They won't just go away.” He broke the hug with a gentle smile. 

 

Now, there were only three ways he knew to act around cops: crying, charming, and clueless. Of course, he had far too long a rap sheet to ever pull off “clueless”. 

 

He opened the door just as the officer outside moved to knock again. The cop didn't register in time and barely missed clocking Casper on the head. 

 

“Casper Cobblepot?” he asked.

 

He stared in irritation at the officer. The clean-shaven man definitely  _ looked  _ like a cop, with his unassuming suit and buzz cut.. He certainly didn't appear to be the type of fellow to respond well to charming. Casper settled on sniffling once or twice and croaking, “Yes, that's me. What did you need, Officer…?”

 

“James Gordon.”  _ Oh.  _ So this was the cop Oswald had used a favor for. He scanned him up and down - didn't look like much. He continued, “I wanted to ask you about Fish Mooney and Mario Pepper.”

 

And there it was again: that  _ name _ . He wished he had never heard it; it was quickly ruining his life. After hearing  _ that name, _ Casper didn't cry or charm. Casper simply closed his eyes in frustration and muttered, “fuck.”

 

~

 

Oswald could see everything. Absolutely everything. Sure, the guide to Gotham’s power players had been a pain to put up, and required an appropriately awkward trip to the neighborhood library to find the maps and newspapers he needed to make it, but it had been worth it. The map let him see how everything was connected, how the dominoes would inevitably fall. He could see the future.

 

It was worth adding vandalization of public property to his growing list of crimes, which so far included kidnapping, assault, and two counts of murder. Well, if scrawling “bitch” across the forehead of an image of Fish Mooney could be considered vandalism.

 

Jim got his own little corner. So did Casper, labeled as “smarmy kiss-ass”. They comprised Gotham's wild cards. Them and Oswald.

 

He was pulled from his thinking by a grunt from his hostage, currently residing in the trailer’s closet. It seemed the boy had finally woken up. Standing from his position laying on his back on the floor, Oswald paced over to the pitiful figure. His mouth was duct taped shut, but that didn't stop him from howling through it. 

 

“Hush,” he shushed the young man, raking one hand across his scalp and clenching his fist to pull at the blonde hair. “Don't worry. You know, you look like you come from a fortunate enough family. I'm sure they'd be willing to pay me the sum I require for your life, and then I won't have to kill you at all,” Oswald reassured him with a smile, pulling his hair to force the boy to look into his eyes. Of course, his hostage disregarded the reassurance completely and began to thrash away from him. His hands were, mercifully, tied. 

 

Maybe he should have blindfolded the hostage, he realized as the boy’s blue eyes darted around the room and settled on observing that Oswald had taken his clothes and was currently wearing them. They were a decent fit, warm, dry, and only slightly bloodstained. He smirked and tugged at the collar. “These are very nice, thank you.” Yes, a blindfold would definitely have been a good investment. Oswald’s looks were nothing if not recognizable. 

 

He grabbed the boy’s cell phone out of his pants pocket and went to crouch down beside him. This immediately revealed itself to be a  _ terrible _ idea. Agony shot through his knee, which he had just,  _ just _ forgotten about. It was  _ healing,  _ **_slowly_ ** , but completely  _ sideways and wrong.  _ Hopefully he would find himself in a position to check in to a hospital soon - a permanent limp would do absolutely jack shit to help shake the “penguin” impression.

 

Gritting his teeth, Oswald attempted to breathe deeply and ignore it. He instead angled the phone’s camera towards the boy, sure to keep his face out of frame, and began recording. “Hello,” he began. “This video is addressed to the parents of...what was your name again?” The hostage tried to speak through the tape, quite unsuccessfully. Oswald laughed lightly. “Right. Anyway, to the parents of this little rascal here, I want you to know that I will kill him -  _ slowly _ \- if my demands are not met.” At this, he flipped open the ivory switchblade he'd found in the other boy’s pocket and pressed it to the captive’s neck. He dug the blade in just lightly enough to leave a thin trickle of blood. “Deliver ten thousand dollars to Canary Park, about thirty miles southwest of Gotham City, by eleven o’clock tonight, and he won't be harmed at all.” Unsure of how to finish the video, he simply chirped a “thank you” and went to stop the recording. But before he could, one small detail occurred to him: “Oh, and if you get the police involved, if you notify anyone else of this situation, he dies.” And with  _ that  _ he ended the message. A satisfyingly sinister closing.

 

The young man was squirming quite irritatingly. “Come now,” Oswald hissed, “you brought this upon yourself and you know it. If you don't know where someone's coming from, sometimes his best to just-” here he tapped the tip of his blade on the tape with every word- “keep. your. mouth. shut. Politeness costs nothing, as my mother says.” 

 

The use of that phrase called to mind something he was astonished hadn't occurred to him before. He sprung up and dialed Casper’s number on the man's phone.  _ Pick up, pick up, pick up. _

 

It rang once, twice, four times, and finally he heard a click. “Hello?” called a voice not unlike Oswald's own. Casper sounded out of breath and annoyed. 

 

“Casper, yes, can anyone hear this?”

 

A long, drawn-out sigh. “No, I don't think so.” 

 

“It's Oswald. I just wanted you to know that... I'm alive.”

 

“Wonderful.” His brother didn't sound particularly enthused. “So, Oswald. Would you like to know where I am right now?” he continued pleasantly.

 

“Sure?”

 

“I'm sitting in a  _ fucking jail cell _ , because you told your  _ friends _ at  _ Internal Affairs  _ that  _ I helped frame Mario Pepper.”  _ Oswald sat in stunned silence. He didn't think the police would have enough evidence to go after his brother. “That's not what I'm here for, of course, officially I'm booked for drug dealing, but they're  _ on to me.  _ And yes,  _ this is my one phone call. _ ” 

 

Oswald swore internally. “Truly, Casper, I'm sorry, I didn't think they'd be able to pin you.”

 

“Well, they were. And hey, glad to hear you're  alive, because when you get back to Gotham? I'm gonna break your nose.”

 

He couldn't help but chuckle. “I’d almost like to see you try. Hand to god, I've killed two people since leaving town. And vandalized library materials. Oh, don't tell Mom that.”

 

“Alright, time’s up,” came a familiar voice, as Casper’s flurry of questions faded into the distance. 

 

“Officer Gordon?” he asked without thinking.

 

The call ended. Oswald noticed the captive staring at him, eyes a mix of fear, horror, and indignation. “What?” Oswald chirped, limping towards him. “Even Lucifer himself had a mother.” He set the phone back onto the nightstand and returned to staring at the map on the ceiling. “Although I'd be loathe to meet her.”

 

~

 

“What!? Two- who- OSW-” he quickly cut himself off as the phone was tugged out of his hand. 

 

“Alright, time’s up,” said Gordon briskly. 

 

Casper pressed himself against the bars, grinning at the officer. Prison wasn't good for him - doves aren't meant for cages. “Oho, when I tell Don Falcone that you've got his boy in a cell, he is  _ not _ gonna be happy!” Jim acted as though he hadn't heard and turned away. He seemed loathe to interact with Casper. “Man of few words, eh? I have no clue what Oswald sees in you!” he shouted at the officer’s retreating back. Gordon only stopped when interrupted by another cop, a scruffy looking man in a fedora. The other man had caught sight of Casper and done a double-take, paper white.  

 

“You brought in Cobblepot’s  _ brother?”  _ the new cop shouted in a whisper. “Man, I told you. The Wayne case is closed.”

 

“I made a promise to Bruce Wayne that I wouldn't let his parents’ death go unpunished.” Hm. Bruce Wayne - a new name. He'd be sure to remember it.

 

“It didn't! We had Pepper. We had justice. Now you're threatening all that on this crazy kamikaze white knight scheme.” More words were exchanged, but Casper couldn't make them out. The scruffy cop strode over to his cell in a huff. “Folks like that, folks that can't respect the higher-ups, they don't last long in Gotham,” he mused, not really to Casper but venting at the air around him.

 

Casper could have laughed. “A cop after my own heart. Yes, I know it better than many. Fish Mooney had my own brother killed for snitching.” 

 

“Is that so? I'm sorry,” the cop replied, eyebrows raised in poorly feigned shock. Casper was tired of this conversation, each side pretending ignorance. 

 

“No, no, it wasn't your fault,” he comforted, knowing full damn well it was. Something like guilt flashed in the officer’s eyes. “What's the matter, Detective? You look like you've seen a ghost.” In a way, Casper knew he had. He was the image of Banquo appearing to Macbeth, a reminder of past misdeeds seeming to haunt the officer from beyond the grave. “So, are you sure you should be talking about subjects like this around me? Something about Pepper being framed, I hear.”

 

“Don't see a point in secrets, seeing as you framed him.”

 

“Well, you killed my brother, so…”

 

Honesty. This was refreshing. Even moreso was the paralyzed look in the man’s eyes as he realized he was now entirely under Casper’s thumb.The cop’s eyes darted around the precinct, checking for eavesdroppers. “What do you need? You need to talk to Falcone, am I right? He can pay you out.” 

 

Casper nodded gleefully. “That's the picture! Thanks, Officer…” 

 

“Harvey. Bullock.” He stuck a hand through the bars. Harvey ignored it, wiping sweat from his brow. “I'll talk to Fish. And hey-” he leaned into the bars - “I really am sorry about your brother.”

 

With that, the officer left, and Casper returned to pacing his cell. Now he saw Jim reflected in Oswald - both always trying to  _ change _ something, trying to shape the world to their vision. In Harvey he saw more of a kindred spirit, a man who understood the hierarchy of Gotham and his place in it. The only difference was that Casper’s Jim Gordon was not a hero looking to become the town’s white knight. Casper’s Jim Gordon was, apparently, on a killing spree.

 

Fucking exceptional.

 

He sat down on the small bed provided to him and leaned against the bars of his neighbor’s cell. “So. Neighbor.” His neighbor was a short-haired woman in a somewhat glamorous dress for the setting, although it was scuffed and torn as from a struggle. “Whatcha in for?” 

 

“None of your business,” she barked, in a startlingly deep male voice. She turned away from him with a huff and made no further acknowledgements of his existence. Life with Oswald had often taught him one thing: misery  _ despises  _ company. 

 

And so he remained altogether alone, until a rattle on the bars pulled his attention back to the world. “Good afternoon, Dove,” the visitor greeted him.

 

Casper sprung up from his bed. “Don Falcone! Oh, thank god you're here. Thank you so much fo-” Falcone held out a hand to shush him and he fell silent. 

 

“Now, don't talk to me like I'm your friend. I'm not friends with people who go behind my back. Don't apologize,” he added just as Casper went to do so, “I understand why you helped Fish. Having friends in high places is useful to someone like you. Just don't forget  _ your _ place in the process.” Casper bristled at the inherent insult, but managed not to show it. “Let the dove out of his cage,” Falcone commanded one of the officers. He didn't even make eye contact with the mob boss as he went to unlock the cell. 

 

Casper trailed behind him on the way out the police station, noticing how Harvey eyed him warily. He was nearly through the door when Falcone turned around at a shout from one Detective Gordon. 

 

“You're letting my witness go!?”

 

“Yes! Yes, I absolutely am,” Harvey hissed, jogging over to Jim. “He knows about Cobblepot, Jim. He can  _ read  _ people. Freaks me right the hell out.”

 

He didn't hear the rest of the conversation and just smirked smugly as he left the precinct. 

 

“Dove, you do good work. That's important,” Falcone began as he led Casper down the city street. “But you know what's more important?”

 

Casper didn't answer.

 

“Respect. Not power, not money, it’s not those things that let me stay in my position. It's knowing that the people I depend on  _ respect _ me. I can't say that about Fish Mooney. I need to know I can say that about you.”

 

“I understand, Don Falcone.” 

 

“Not respect to money, not respect to power, not respect to saving your own back, but to me.”

 

He only nodded, and they continued in silence. The only thing Casper got out of the conversation was that Fish had one thing right - Falcone was headed out. His beliefs were outdated. It was  _ all _ about money and power. Cynical as that sounded, life in Gotham had proved it true. 

 

So, he needed to get on the good side of whoever was up next. Fish was the obvious heir to the Falcone empire. It was one of many gifts of his, the ability to read people. He could see the future; now he just had to back the winning horse.

 

“Let me prove it to you,” he said abruptly, stopping and turning to Falcone. “Let me prove my loyalty, let me work for Fish Mooney. A subordinate.”

 

“Fish Mooney?” Casper nodded. “She broke your wrist. You had that stupid cast on for a month, you couldn't work.”

 

This was true. The cast had looked quite a bit like a wing, annoyingly enough. A dove with a broken wing is a dead dove.

 

_ Forgive and forget. _

 

“Precisely!” he explained with a slightly bitter smile. “I want to prove I won't let grudges or enduring physical injury get in the way of... _loyalty_.”

 

Don Falcone stared at him thoughtfully. “Alright,” he conceded finally, “I'll let you work for Fish. She's in need of a new umbrella boy.”

 

Casper’s feet stumbled and tripped over each other. Against his will, he stuttered to a stop. He squeaked, “An umbrella-?”

 

“Yes. The position is recently vacant. I  _ am _ deeply sorry about your brother.”

 

“Thank you.” Alright. So Falcone didn't know, not for sure. Jim Gordon and himself were the only people to know that Oswald was alive. This was good. Knowledge was important.

 

_ An umbrella boy, huh? Following in dangerous footsteps, Casper,  _ he advised himself. He'd be starting over at the bottom to be sure, but working his way up would be easy for him. That was another of his gifts, his ability to win people over.

 

“Alright, Don Falcone. I accept your offer.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Any and all complaints along the lines of “that's not how the police work” will be answered with “this is Gotham we're talking about” cuz I don't know how the fucking police work and I don't think the Gotham writers do either.


	3. A Casual Every-Day Killing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Casper Cobblepot is playing the long game, a war of words and manipulation. His twin Oswald, ever the minimalist, is enjoying his legal status as a dead man by way of an all-out killing spree. There’s one in every family.

Gotham City was not a nice city. If you came to Gotham City with any kind of a dream, you couldn't expect it to last long. It was not a pretty town in any way, and it was not one for weak people. It was rife with crime, corruption, 24/7 cloud coverage, and cynicism. It was a city utterly devoid of hope.

One seeming to have been built solely for Oswald and Casper Cobblepot.

As Oswald disembarked the city bus, he was flooded with nostalgia. His time away from Gotham had not in any way been a high point for him. But returning was easy - after the tedious process of disposing of the bodies of College Kid #1 and later, College Kid #2. The driver’s mother had been entirely hopeless at hostage negotiation; an important skill, as she would soon discover.

Once that was taken care of it was simply a matter of boarding a Greyhound bus and using the hostage’s pocket change to acquire a one-way ticket to Gotham.

And he was home.

Sure, Oswald felt a bit silly in his hostages’ only lightly bloodstained clothes, with the polo collar turned up for added fuckboy effect. But as he gazed around the city corner, taking in the smog, the pickpocketing, the bribes, the prostitution, and the drug deals occurring on every square inch of the block, all he felt was ecstasy. A cynical ecstasy, but a feeling of belonging nonetheless. “Home,” he muttered, a nostalgic grin creeping across his face.

Now he just needed a plan. Of course, the long term goal was to unseat Carmine Falcone and take over Gotham City’s criminal underworld, but he needed a place to start. Step one: find a job. Oswald was good at small-scale labor, for a while. He could handle starting at the bottom so long as he worked his way up.

And he knew he was going to, yes. He knew he'd find a way to make it big. It was what his mother had always told him. What his brother had...implied...subtly...on rare occasions. He could _see_ the _future_. And it was _him_. He was the future of Gotham.

Ah, but first he needed lunch, a growing vacuum in his gut reminded him. He hadn't eaten since...well, he'd eaten dinner, then got kidnapped and shot into a pier, then killed a fisherman and eaten his tuna sandwich. Then he'd hitchhiked for the rest of the day and had to deal with a hostage situation, then had to cut up and hide a body which took up the rest of the day...yeah, he had only eaten once in 36 hours. Fuck, he needed another tuna sandwich.

He spotted a food truck down the alley advertising just that and began the arduous process of walking towards it. On the bright side, each step no longer felt like the lash of a whip. The sensation had subsided to more of a dull ache. Still, his right foot was bent maybe sixty degrees further right than it should be, and it was getting harder and harder to bend back. Yeah, something was going to end up bad. Permanently.

He'd spent most of his hostage’s pocket change on a bus ticket, leaving him with a meager $2.25 for lunch. He also had the ivory-handled switchblade, if it came to that. This was a problem...but Gotham was the city of opportunity, he reminded himself as an unlucky hand found its way to Oswald’s shoulder. He whirled around with the knife in hand, prepared for a scuffle.

“Hey, Cobblepot? You're supposed to be dead,” said the man.

He froze, but manage to lapse into a stuttering accent. Not one unfamiliar to him, no. He'd grown up around it, the voice of his mother. Truthfully, Casper had shaken it better than he. As a kid, in times of stress, Oswald would often fall back into it. He still hadn't entirely lost it. “Oh, you must have me confused.” He smiled jovially. “My name is Dmitri, from-”

“No no no, I heard you got whacked for ratting.” Exceptional, a street thug well-informed on current events. “Fish is gonna pay some serious cash for your skinny ass.” The man grabbed Oswald by his stupid turned-up collar and began to haul him down the alley.

“No, no no no no, please, she'll kill me!” He tried to writhe away, but one useless leg dragging behind him hindered his escape.

“Why'd you even come back, huh?”

“I-I couldn't stay away, Gotham is my home! It's my destiny!” The accent vanished. “You don't see what's coming, I do!” Without question, he was ranting now, rambling out of sheer desperation. “Gotham needs me, I'm it's future!”

This gave his captor pause. “If you're it's future, then Gotham is in big trouble.”

And Oswald smiled, his third genuine smile since the pier. “Yes. Yes, it is.” Taking advantage of the man's distraction, he tightened his grip on the switchblade and swung down, carving a deep slice into his Achilles' tendon. He screamed, fell to his knees, and released his hold on Oswald’s shirt. Gravity assisted Oswald in falling ungracefully onto the man, laying across him and sending the blade hard into his neck. The legs beneath him kicked once, twice, and then fell still.

There. Problem solved.

He painstakingly dragged the body across the alley to a semi-hidden area behind a parked car. It didn't matter if he left fingerprints. He was nobody. He was a dead nobody. No-one suspects a dead man of homicide - sitting lifelessly on the floor of the Gotham Harbor made for a pretty good alibi.

The body was still bleeding annoyingly, leaving Oswald’s palms painted a dark red. With a tiny noise of distaste, he smeared the blood unceremoniously across the man’s shirt. As his hand brushed over the body’s shirtfront pocket, something occurring to him. Oswald was still broke, and still needed a tuna sandwich.

Gotham is the city of opportunity, and sure enough, the man had been carrying three crisp fifty dollar bills - enough for tuna and quite a bit more.

Of course, if he wanted to thrive once more in Gotham, he'd need more than a sandwich. He'd need information.

So, with his entire fortune burning a hole in his pocket, he spent the last of the boy’s change on a newspaper. The front page headline was some sale in limbo on the Arkham Asylum lot, another unfamiliar word to remember. Words were knowledge. Knowledge was power. Power was everything.

Oswald himself got a small obituary on the fourth page. _Gotham youth Oswald Cobblepot has been presumed dead after disappearing from his day job at Mooney’s nightclub this last Friday. An angel -_ at this he could not suppress a chuckle - _who could not have had more love for his family, Cobblepot is survived by his mother Gertrude and twin brother Casper._

Curious. Had Casper talked to the press for this tongue-in-cheek little piece?

A charming memoir, but he craved more. Someday he'd be front page news.

That didn't matter now, however. The fact was, his first priority was finding a job. Skimming the classifieds didn't turn up much - but a corner advertisement for an Italian restaurant caught his eye. That cuisine tended to draw the clientele he was looking to meet - maybe he'd get lucky.

So, with his foot locked sickeningly at an angle sixty degrees too far right, he hobbled towards the sandwich stand. Next stop: success.

~

Casper Cobblepot was quickly turning into his brother.

Casper’s life has become a cacophony of “yes, Miss Mooney,” “right away, Miss Mooney,” and “whatever you say, Miss Mooney.” It was hard to hold on to any dignity when Fish projected _so much_ of it.

He'd gone from working trades for Falcone to holding up Fish Mooney’s umbrella in two days. He didn't really mind the indignity; his big problem with the demotion was the pay cut. Still, taking this shitty new job had been his idea - to prove his loyalty or something. Of course, he was also hoping to get back on her good side, as he was confident in her ability to succeed Falcone as head of Gotham’s underworld someday. When that day came, he wanted to be on the right team.

And Casper had the charm turned up to eleven, as usual - with luck, he'd be at Fish Mooney’s right hand within the month.

Even though now he was just polishing glasses. A monotonous, easy task. No thought required. Which was unfortunate, as he could have used a thoughtful job to take his mind off of his torturous withdrawal symptoms.

Getting moved away from his job with Falcone cut off his access to substances he'd gotten a bit used to, and boy, that was not good for him. He'd been moved off umbrella duty by Fish because his clammy hands made it near impossible to hold onto anything, and his light head made it impossible to stand.

Casper blinked tightly to quell an impending headache in his temples. Is this what Oswald’s migraines felt like? No wonder he was completely off the deep end.

The headache robbed him of concentration for only a second, but that second allowed the glass in his hand to slip from his grasp and shatter on the floor before he could even register that he'd let go. His boss looked up across the club at the sound.

_Fuck_.

Fish glided towards the bar and he hurriedly stooped to sweep up the shards with a towel. “Still feeling sick?” she asked, oozing false sympathy.

Casper smiled dismissively. “Not at my best, no, but it’s nothing to be concerned with.”

“Hm. Well, never mind that.” Fish gestured at the glass. “I think you need to get some fresh air. You've got a new job, I have some trading to work out with one of Falcone’s distributors. See to it that nothing slips out-” she glared at him so fiercely that he froze from drying off the counter, “one way or another.”

He nodded with a forced smile. “Of course, Miss Mooney.”

In a dizzy blur, Butch escorted Casper to the alley behind the nightclub, transferred to him a small bag, a destination, and a warning, and sent him on his way.

Casper wasn't a block away from the club when he stopped, let out a long-held breath, and began to unscrew the top of his cane. He opened the bag he had been given and carefully emptied half of its contents into the hollow compartment at the top. After screwing the head of the cane back on, he flipped it over, popped open the bottom, and poured a different substance from another compartment into the bag. His own special mix - mostly crushed caffeine pills.

Alright, maybe the cane wasn't solely for aesthetic. Would he be killed if the people Fish was trading with caught on and traced it back to him? Absolutely. But that was a risk he had to take.

He rounded a corner and stopped dead in his tracks at his own figure standing on the side of the road. He quickly ducked into an alley, staring at the form. His brother looked like an absolute mess - his face was bruised, and something was seriously wrong with the angles in his right leg. Somewhere along the line he’d gotten his hands on some new clothes, not up to his usual dapper standard. If Casper knew his brother, Oswald would be absolutely repulsed at his current state. He’d always tried to project dignity - he didn’t want people to see him as vulnerable.

Casper spied silently around the corner of the alley - who was Oswald talking to? A man in chef’s clothes, who seemed rather wary of the smiling Oswald. “What size are your shoes?” Casper heard his brother chirp. _What the hell was he talking about?_

“Um… nines?” The man replied. That was Casper’s size, he observed distractedly, Oswald’s as well.

Oswald laughed lightly. “What a coincidence!” Casper furrowed his brow, but his train of thought was lost as the cook began to cross the street in his direction. Oswald, at first, was still, but soon began to quietly follow the man a few limping paces back. Casper crept with silent footsteps down the alleyway and crouched behind a dumpster at the far side. He stilled his breathing and watched the end of the alley from his hiding place. The cook reached the entryway, got halfway across-

With a flash, a stumbling figure lunged at the cook from behind and wrapped an arm around his neck.

_Oswald?_ Casper gasped, and clapped a hand over his own mouth to stop from giving away his position.

He saw the glint of a blade in Oswald’s hand, but before he fully process that, the cook let out a strangled cry and shivered his way to the ground, gripping at Oswald’s jacket with bloody hands as he fell. Oswald looked around furtively and Casper leaned against the side of the dumpster to avoid being spotted.

He could feel his pulse in his entire head. It was cold in Gotham, but suddenly he was burning up. He was tense with fear, fear of what he’d just seen his brother do. His brother! The man he’d known since literally before he was born! Oswald! He gripped his forehead and tried to calm his breathing. He’d seen people die before, in drug trades gone wrong and during Fish Mooney’s little outbursts. But he’d never killed anyone. And, before yesterday, neither had Oswald.

His twin had a history of violence. Oswald used to bring dead rabbits home when he was little, the occasional turtledove he’d bashed over the head with a rock, before Gertrude had worried the habit out of him. More than once, he’d bragged to Casper that he’d helped at Fish’s club by roughing up an informant or something like that. Still, this was… different. This was simple murder. And Oswald had treated it like a run-of-the-mill necessity. Just a casual, everyday killing. For what?!

Burning with confusion, he peeked back down the alley at Oswald, who was struggling to drag the corpse in his direction. Casper would have to move soon, but for a time he was paralyzed by the scene unfolding in front of him. Once the cook was propped sufficiently against a cluster of trash cans, Oswald crouched with a hiss of pain and began to untie his shoes.

Again with the shoes, Casper thought dully. He watched as Oswald swapped the cook’s shoes for his own, hobbled to his feet, and ran unsteadily away.

Oswald was seriously injured, Casper was sure, though his sympathy for his twin was lessened by the murder he’d just seen him commit.

He stood shakily and stepped out of the alley. Between the withdrawals and the family crises, his nerves were absolutely fried. His twitching hands lost their grip on his bird cane and the top popped off, leaving a long, curved line of coke spilled out onto the sidewalk where it rolled.

Casper weighed the merits of doing a massive dose of stolen cocaine off the ground, in his current state. He elected to leave it behind as a pleasant surprise for the next bum to come across it, and instead scooped up his walking stick and jogged off. He still had a job to do.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> REVIEWS ARE MAGIC BITCH

**Author's Note:**

> Okay so, in general, if there's a detail that's different from the show it's cuz I took it from the original draft script to change stuff up a bit, but also cuz I felt it fit better. These include the river being ten feet below the dock and chaotic (yay penguin metaphors), him not still in his suit (to me, that moment always seemed like it should be more of a transformation than a decay), and him being gagged (I was too lazy to type his pleading and I wanted to take the word "mewling" right from the script). I'm hoping to keep writing this to get caught up by the season premiere but lol honestly who are we kidding I can't do deadlines. I will keep writing this though - I absolutely love this concept, hopefully as much as you like reading it? (fingers crossed!) Thanks! Reviews are always appreciated.


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